Arthur, after he had dropped from the post-chaise that morning, did not
at once move away. He stood on the crown of the East Bridge, looking
down the river, and the turmoil of his feelings was such as for a time
to render thought of the future impossible, and even to hold despair at
bay. The certainty that his plan would have succeeded if it had not
been thwarted by the very persons who would have profited by it, and
the knowledge that but for their scruples all that he had at stake in
the bank would have been saved—this certainty and this knowledge, with
the fact that while they left him to bear the obloquy they had denied
him the prize, so maddened him that for a full minute he stood,
grasping the stone balustrade of the bridge, and whispering curses at
the current that flowed smoothly below.
The sunshine and the fair scene did but mock him. The green meadows,
and the winding river, and the crescent of stately buildings,
spire-crowned, that, curving with the stream, looked down upon it from
the site of the ancient walls, did but deride his misery. For, how many
a time had he stood on that spot and looked on that scene in days when
he had been happy and carefree, his future as sunny as the landscape
before him! And now—oh, the cowards! The cowards, who had not had the
courage even to pick up the fruit which his daring had shaken from the
bough.
Ay, his daring and his enterprise! For what else was it? What had he
done, after all, at which they need made mouths? It had been but a loan
he had taken, the use for a few weeks of money which was useless where
it lay, and of which not a penny would be lost! And again he cursed the
weakness of those who had rendered futile all that he, the bolder
spirit, had done, who had consigned themselves and him to failure and
to beggary. He had bought their safety at his own cost, and they had
declined to be saved. He shook with rage, with impotent rage, as he
thought of it.
Presently a man, passing over the bridge, looked curiously at him,
paused and went on again, and the incident recalled him to himself. He
remembered that he was in a place where all knew him, where his
movements and his looks would be observed, where every second person
who saw him would wonder why he was not at the bank. He must be going.
He composed his face and walked on.
But whither? The question smote him with a strange and chilly sense of
loneliness. Whither? To the bank certainly, if he had courage, where
the battle was even now joined. He might fling himself into the fray,
play his part as if nothing had happened, smile with the best, ignore
what he had done and, if challenged, face it down. And there had been a
time when he could have done this. There had been a time, when Clement
had first alighted on him in town, when he had decided with himself to
play that rôle, and had believed that he could carry it off with a
smiling face. And now, now, as then, he maintained that he had done
nothing that the end did not justify, since the means could harm no
one.
But at that time he had believed that he could count on the complicity
of others, he had believed that they would at least accept the thing
that he had done and throw in their lot with his, and the failure of
that belief, brag as he might, affected him. It had sapped his faith in
his own standards. The view Clement had taken had slowly but surely
eclipsed his view, until now, when he must face the bank with a smile,
he could not muster up the smile. He began to see that he had committed
not a crime, but a blunder. He had been found out!
He walked more and more slowly, and when he came, some eighty yards
from the bridge and at the foot of the Cop, to a lane on his left which
led by an obscure shortcut to his rooms, he turned into it. He did not
tell himself that he was not going to the bank. He told himself that he
must change his clothes, and wash, and eat something before he could
face people. That was all.
He reached his lodgings, beneath the shadow of an old tower that looked
over the meadows to the river, without encountering any one. He even
stole upstairs, unseen by his landlady, and found the fire alight in
his sitting-room, and some part of a meal laid ready on the table. He
washed his hands and ate and drank, but instinctively, as he did so, he
hushed his movements and trod softly. When he had finished his meal he
stood for a moment, his eyes on the door, hesitating. Should he or
should he not go to the bank? He knew that he ought to go. But the wear
and tear of three days of labor and excitement, during which he had
hardly slept as many hours, had lowered his vitality and sapped his
will, and the effort required was now too much for him. With a sigh of
relief he threw up the sponge, he owned himself beaten. He sank into a
chair and, moody and inert, he sat gazing at the fire. He was very
weary, and presently his eyes closed, and he slept.
Two hours later his landlady discovered him, and the cry which she
uttered in her astonishment awoke him. “Mercy on us!” she exclaimed.
“You here, sir! And I never heard a sound, and no notion you were come!
But I was expecting you, Mr. Bourdillon. ‘He won’t be long,’ I says to
myself, ‘now that that plaguy bank’s gone and closed—worse luck to it!”
“Closed, has it?” he said, dully.
“Ay, to be sure, this hour past.” Which of course was not true, but
many things that were not true were being said in Aldersbury that day.
“And nothing else to be expected, I am told, though there’s nobody
blames you, sir. You can’t put old heads on young shoulders, asking
your pardon, sir, as I said to Mrs. Brown no more than an hour ago. It
was her Johnny told me—he came that way from school and stopped to
look. Such a sight of people on Bride Hill, he said, as he never saw in
his life, ’cept on Show Day, and the shutters going up just as he came
away.”
He did not doubt the story—he knew that there was no other end to be
expected. “I am only just from London,” he said, feeling that some
explanation of his ignorance was necessary. “I had no sleep last night,
Mrs. Bowles, and I sat down for a moment, and I suppose I fell asleep
in my chair.”
“Indeed, and no wonder. From London, to be sure! Can I bring you
anything up, sir?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Bowles. I shall have to go out presently, and
until I go out, don’t let me be disturbed. I’m not at home if any one
calls. You understand?”
“I understand, sir.” And on the stairs, as she descended, a pile of
plates and dishes in her arms, “Poor young gentleman,” she murmured,
“it’s done him no good. And some in my place would be thinking of their
bill. But his people will see me paid. That’s where the gentry come
in—they’re never the losers, whoever fails.”
For a few minutes after she had retired he dawdled about the room,
staring through the window without seeing anything, revolving the news,
and telling himself, but no longer with passion, that the game was
played out. And gradually the idea of flight grew upon him, and the
longing to be in some place where he could hide his head, where he
might let himself go and pity himself unwatched. Had his pockets been
full he would have returned to London and lost himself in its crowds,
and presently, he thought—for he still believed in himself—he would
have shown the world what he could do.
But he had spent his loose cash on the journey, he was almost without
money, and instinct as well as necessity turned his thoughts towards
his mother. The notion once accepted grew upon him, and he longed to be
at the Cottage. He felt that there he might be quiet, that there no one
would watch him, and stealthily—on fire to be gone now that he had made
up his mind—he sought for his hat and coat and let himself out of the
house.
There was no one in sight, and descending from the Town Wall by some
steps, he crossed the meadows to the river. He passed the water by a
ferry, and skirting the foot of the rising ground on the other side, he
presently struck into the Garthmyle road a little beyond the West
Bridge.
He trudged along the road, his hat drawn down to his eyes, his
shoulders humped, his gaze fixed doggedly on the road before him. He
marched as men march who have had the worst of the battle, yet whom it
would be unwise to pursue too closely. At first he walked rapidly,
taking where he could a by-path, or a short-cut, and though the hills,
rising from the plain before him, were fair to see on this fine winter
day, as the sun began to decline and redden their slopes, he had no eye
for them or for the few whom he met, the road-man, or the carter, who,
plodding beside his load of turnips or manure, looked up and saluted
him.
But when he had left the town two or three miles behind he breathed
more freely. He lessened his pace. Presently he heard on the road
behind him the clip-clop of a trotting horse, and not wishing to be
recognized, he slipped into the mouth of a lane, and by and by he saw
Clement Ovington ride by. He flung a vicious curse after him and,
returning to the road, he went on more slowly, chewing the sour cud of
reflection, until he came to the low sedgy tract where the Squire had
met with his misadventure, and where in earlier days the old man had
many a time heard the bittern’s note.
He was in no hurry now, for he did not mean to reach the Cottage until
Clement had left it, and he stood leaning against the old thorn tree,
viewing the place and thinking bitterly of the then and the now. And
presently a spark of hope was kindled in him. Surely all was not
lost—even now! The Squire was angry—angry for the moment, and with
reason. But could he maintain his anger against one who had saved his
life at the risk of his own? Could he refuse to pardon one, but for
whom he would be already lying in his grave? With a quick uplifting of
the spirit Arthur conceived that the Squire could not. No man could be
so thankless, so unmindful of a benefit, so ungrateful.
Strange, that he had not thought of that before! Strange—that under the
pressure of difficulties he had let that claim slip from his mind. It
had restored him to his uncle’s favor once. Why should it not restore
him a second time? Properly handled—and he thought that he could trust
himself to handle it properly—it should avail him. Let him once get
speech of his uncle, and surely he could depend on his own dexterity
for the rest.
Hope awoke in him, and confidence. He squared his shoulders, he threw
back his head, he strode on, he became once more the jaunty, gallant,
handsome young fellow, whom women’s eyes were wont to follow as he
passed through the streets. But, steady, not so fast. There was still
room for management. He had no mind to meet Clement, whom he hated for
his interference, and he went a little out of the way, until he had
seen him pass by on his return journey. Then he went on. But it was now
late, and the murmur of the river came up from shadowy depths, the
squat tower of the church was beginning to blend with the dark sky,
lights shone from the cottage doors, when he passed over the bridge. He
hastened on through the dusk, opened the garden-gate, and saw his
mother standing in the lighted doorway. She had missed Clement, but had
gathered from the servant who had seen him that Arthur might be
expected at any moment, and she had come to the door with a shawl about
her head, that she might be on the look-out for him.
Poor Mrs. Bourdillon! She had passed a miserable day. She had her
own—her private grounds for anxiety on Arthur’s account, and that
anxiety had been strengthened by her last talk with Josina. She was
sure that something was wrong with him, and this had so weighed on her
spirits and engrossed her thoughts, that the danger that menaced the
bank and her little fortune had not at first disturbed her. But as the
tale of village gossip grew, and the rumors of disaster became more
insistent, she had been forced to listen, and her fears once aroused,
she had not been slow to awake to her position. Gradually Arthur’s
absence and her misgivings on his account had taken the second place.
The prospect of ruin, of losing her all and becoming dependent on the
Squire’s niggard bounty, had closed her mind to other terrors.
So at noon on this day, unable to bear her thoughts alone, she had
walked across the fields and seen Josina. But Josina had not been able
to reassure her. The girl had said as little as might be about Arthur,
and on the subject of the bank was herself so despondent that she had
no comfort for another. The Squire had gone to town—for the first time
since he had been laid up—in company with Sir Charles, and Josina
fancied that it might be upon the bank business. But she hardly dared
to hope that good could come of it, and Mrs. Bourdillon, who flattered
herself that she knew the Squire, had no hope. She had returned from
Garth more wretched than she had gone, and had she been a much wiser
woman than she was, she would have found it hard to meet her son with
tact.
When she heard his footsteps on the road, “Is it you?” she cried. And
as he came forward into the light, “Oh, Arthur!” she wailed, “what have
you brought us to? What have you done? And the times and times I’ve
warned you! Didn’t I tell you that those Ovingtons——”
“Well, come in now, mother,” he said. He stooped and kissed her on the
forehead. He was very patient with her—let it be said to his credit.
“But, oh dear, dear!” She had lost control of herself and could not
stay her complaints if she would. “You would have your way! And you see
what has come of it! You would do it! And now—what am I to say to your
uncle?”
“You can leave him to me,” Arthur replied doggedly. “And for goodness’
sake, mother, come in and shut the door. You don’t want to talk to the
village, I suppose? Come in.”
He shepherded her into the parlor and closed the door on them. He was
cold, and he went to the fire and stooped over it, warming his hands at
the blaze.
“But the bank?”
“Oh, the bank’s gone,” he said.
She began to cry. “Then, I don’t know what’s to become of us!” she
sobbed. “It’s everything we have to live upon! And you know it wasn’t I
signed the order to—to your uncle! I never did—it was you—wrote my
name. And now—it has ruined us! Ruined us!”
His face grew darker. “If you wish to ruin us,” he said, “at any rate
if you wish to ruin me, you’ll talk like that! As it is, you’ll not
lose your money, or only a part of it. The bank can pay everyone, and
there’ll be something over. A good deal, I fancy,” putting the best
face on it. “You’ll get back the greater part of it.” Then, changing
the subject abruptly, “What did Clement Ovington want?”
“I don’t—know,” she sobbed. But already his influence was mastering
her; already she was a little comforted. “He asked for you. I didn’t
see him—I could not bear it. I suppose he came to—to tell me about the
bank.”
“Well,” ungraciously, “he might have spared himself the trouble.” And
under his breath he added a curse. “Now let me have some tea, mother.
I’m tired—dog tired. I had no sleep last night. And I want to see Pugh
before he goes. He must take a note for me—to Garth.”
“I’m afraid the Squire——”
“Oh, hang the Squire! It’s not to him,” impatiently. “It’s to Josina,
if you must know.”
She perked up a little at that—she had always some hope of Josina; and
the return to everyday life, the clatter of the tray as it was brought
in, the act of giving him his tea and seeing that he had what he liked,
the mere bustling about him, did more to restore her. The lighted room,
the blazing fire, the cheerful board—in face of these things it was
hard to believe in ruin, or to fancy that life would not be always as
it had been. She began again to have faith in him.
And he, whose natural bent it was to be sanguine, whose spirits had
already rebounded from the worst, shared the feeling which he imparted.
That she knew the worst was something; that, at any rate, was over, and
confidently, he began to build his house again. “You won’t lose,” he
said, casting back the locks from his forehead with the gesture
peculiar to him. “Or not more than a few hundreds at worst, mother.
That will be all right. I’ll see to that. And my uncle—you may leave
him to me. He’s been vexed with me before, and I’ve brought him round.
Oh, I know him. I’ve no doubt that I can manage him.”
“But Josina?” timidly. “D’you know, she was terribly low, Arthur—about
something yesterday. She wouldn’t tell me, but there was something. She
didn’t seem to want to talk about you.”
He winced, and for a moment his face fell. But he recovered himself,
and, “Oh, I’ll soon put that right,” he answered confidently. “I shall
see her in the morning. She’s a good soul, is Josina. I can count on
her. Don’t you fret, mother. You’ll see it will all come right—with a
little management.”
“Well, I know you’re very clever, Arthur. But Jos——”
“Jos is afraid of him, that’s all.” And laughing, “Oh, I’ve an arrow in
my quiver, yet, mother. We shall see. But I must see Jos in the
morning. Is Pugh there? I’ll write to her now and ask her to meet me at
the stile at ten o’clock. Nothing like striking while the iron is hot.”
On the morrow he did not feel quite so confident. The sunshine and open
weather of the day before had given place to rain and fog, and when,
after crossing the plank-bridge at the foot of the garden, he took the
field path which led to Garth, mist hid the more distant hills, and
even the limestone ridge which rose to her knees. The vale had ceased
to be a vale, and he walked in a plain, sad and circumscribed, bounded
by ghostly hedges, which in their turn melted into grey space. That the
day should affect his spirits was natural, and that his position should
appear less hopeful was natural, too, and he told himself so, and
strove to rally his courage. He strode along, swinging his stick and
swaggering, though there was no one to see him. And from time to time
he whistled to prove that he was free from care.
After all, the fact that it rained did not alter matters. Wet or dry he
had saved the Squire’s life, and a man’s life was his first and last
and greatest possession, and not least valued when near its end. He who
saved it had a claim, and much—much must be forgiven him. Then, too, he
reminded himself that the old man was no longer the hard, immovable
block that he had been. The loss of sight had weakened him; he had
broken a good deal in the last few months. He could be cajoled,
persuaded, made to see things, and surely, with Josina’s help, it would
not be impossible to put such a color on the—the loan of the securities
as might make it appear a trifle. Courage! A little courage and all
would be well yet.
He was still hopeful when he saw Josina’s figure, muffled in a cloak
and poke-bonnet, grow out of the mist before him. The girl was waiting
for him on the farther side of the half-way stile, which had been their
trysting place from childhood; and what slight doubt he had felt as to
her willingness to help him died away. He whistled a little louder, and
swung his stick more carelessly, and he spoke before he came up to her.
“Hallo, Jos!” he cried cheerfully. “You’re before me. But I knew that I
could count on you, if I could count on any one. I only came from
London last night, and”—his stick over his shoulder, and his head
thrown back—“I knew the best thing I could do was to see you and get
your help. Why?” In spite of himself his voice fell a tone. “What’s the
matter?”
“Oh, Arthur!” she said. That was all, but the two words completed what
her look had begun. His eyes dropped. “How could you? How would you do
it?”
“Why—why, surely you’re not going to turn against me?” he exclaimed.
“And he was blind! Blind! And he trusted you. He trusted you, Arthur.”
“The devil!” roughly—for how could he meet this save by bluster? “If
we’re going to talk like that—but you don’t understand, Jos. It was
business, and you don’t understand, I tell you. Business, Jos.”
“He does.”
Two words only, but they rang a knell in his ears. They gripped him in
the moment of his swagger, left him bare before her, a culprit, dumb.
“He has felt it terribly! Terribly,” she continued. “He was blind, and
you deceived him. Whom can he trust now, Arthur?”
He strove to rally his confidence. He could not meet her gaze, but he
tapped a rail of the stile with his stick. “Oh, but that’s nonsense!”
he said. “Nonsense! But, of course, if you are against me, if you are
not going to help me——”
“How can I help you? He will not hear your name.”
“I can tell you how—quite easily, if you will let me explain?”
She shook her head.
“But you can. If you are willing, that is. Of course, if you are not——”
“What can I do? He knows all.”
“You can remind him of what I did for him,” he answered eagerly. “I
saved his life. He would not be alive now but for me. You can tell him
that. Remind him of that, Jos. Tell him that sometime after dinner,
when he is in a good humor. He owes his life to me, and that’s not a
small thing—is it? Even he must see that he owes me something. What’s a
paltry thousand or two thousand? And I only borrowed them; he won’t
lose a penny by it—not a penny!” earnestly. “What’s that in return for
a man’s life? He must know——”
“He does know!” she cried; and the honest indignation in her eyes, the
indignation that she could no longer restrain, scorched him. For this
was too much, this was more than even she, gentle as she was, could
bear. “He does know all—all, Arthur!” she repeated severely. “That it
was not you—not you, but Clement, Mr. Ovington, who saved him! And
fought for him—that night! Oh, Arthur, for shame! For shame! I did not
think so meanly of you as this! I did not think that you would rob
another——”
“What do you mean?” He tried to bluster afresh, but the stick shook in
his hand. “Confound it, what do you mean?”
“What I say,” she answered firmly. “And it is no use to deny it, for my
father knows it. He knows all. He has seen Clement——”
“Clement, eh?” bitterly. “Oh, it’s Clement now, is it?” He was white
with rage and chagrin, furious at the failure of his last hope. “It’s
that way, is it? You have gone over to that prig, have you? And he’s
told you this?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe him?”
“I do.”
“You believe him against me?”
“Yes,” she said, “for it is the truth, Arthur. I know that he would not
tell me anything else.”
“And I? Do you mean to say that I would?”
She was silent.
It was check and mate, the loss of his last piece, the close of the
game—and he knew it. With all in his favor he had made one false move,
then another and a graver one, and this was the end.
He could not face it out. There was no more to be said, nothing more to
be done, only shame and humiliation if he stayed. He flung a word of
passionate incoherent abuse at her, and before she could reply he
turned his back on her and strode away. Sorrowfully Jos watched him as
he hurried along the path, cutting at the hedge with his stick, cursing
his luck, cursing the trickery of others, cursing at last, perhaps, his
own folly. She watched him until the ghostly hedges and the misty
distances veiled him from sight.
Ten minutes later he burst in upon his mother at the Cottage and
demanded twenty pounds. “Give it me, and let me go!” he cried. “Do you
hear? I must have it! If you don’t give it me, I shall cut my throat!”
Scared by his manner, his haggard eyes, his look of misery, the poor
woman did not even protest. She went upstairs and fetched the sum he
asked for. He took it, kissed her with lips still damp with rain, and
bidding her send his clothes as he should direct—he would write to
her—he hurried out.